"Why?" you ask.
Because I’ve been mining rocks from our yard.
Well, partly because we need them to make a wall. And partly because they are EVERYWHERE and the grass won’t grow and the water can’t go into the ground and just sits there making a muddy mess. And partly because I think I need to really screw up my back before going into the doctor to justify the expense of the MRI that I’ll need to have before they charge me more money to put shots into my spine to shut it up.
But mostly I think I’ve been mining rocks because when I’m mining rocks, I can’t think about all the other things that stress me out. I mean it’s really hard to get all panicky about things when you’re in a hole and trying to keep the rock from slipping back on you. Or, SURPRISE, there’s a Termite house under this one and they are not pleased to see sunlight and they all swarm towards your feet while screaming in their little Termite voices “Get the Giant!” All the stupid little stress-inducing things go out of your head when you’re suddenly defending your body from an onslaught of tiny teeth.
Some people meditate. I, apparently, mine rocks.
Little known fact: those suckers are huge and heavy and slimy and really, really hurt when they fall back into the hole you’re trying to get them out of and squish your finger. And then, the rest of the day, the fingers feel all funny and poufy and awkward as you try to do everyday things like brush your teeth or pick dog hairs off your black tank top or check Facebook to see if anyone has done anything worth anything - which they never have but perish the thought I miss anything.
And the spots where the rocks fell over in said hole and landed on my leg aren’t too happy either. Although I do now have a lovely bunch of bruises to accompany the plethora of mosquito bites that are decorating my somewhat muscularly tan legs so that’s good. Someone asked me the other day why, when it’s 90+degrees out, I’m still wearing my boots. Well dude, that’s why. My face may look like a grownup but my legs look like a twelve year old on summer vacation. The only thing I’m missing is cartoon character Band-Aids covering my knobby knees.
Also, my back is yelling loudly at me again, very loudly. Last night in Target, I had a spasm so bad I almost passed out. Which would have been awesome. It’s really bright in Target at night by the way. Everyone can see everyone very clearly. And they all look at you as you Quasimodo walk your way out of the store. And no amount of slow walking can make a person look cool. Or rather I should say, I don’t look cool doing a slow Pimp Roll through Target at 9pm at night. Heck, I don’t ever look cool doing a Pimp Roll but most of the time I can pretend I do.
Sigh. Let’s be real here, I’m still not sure if there is any amount of pain and embarrassing moments that will justify the expense of the MRI. And, if I’m being honest, it’s not the expense that really stressing me out but the being locked in a tight tunnel, not moving and having hammering thunder around your claustrophobic head for hours.
And, if I do have to get the epidural shots, what if they miss and paralyze me and I then have to rely on Husband to wipe my rear end for the rest of time? That’s not going to go well. Ever.
And now my brain is going there….
Get ready to chase me, Termites. As annoying as it is to you and stupid as it is for me, I’m off to mine some more rocks. I have to shut my brain off somehow...